FOOTNOTES: [A] At the hospital of Saint Giles for Lazars, the prisoners conveyed from the City of London towards Tyburn, there to be executed for treasons, felonies, or other trespasses, were presented with a Bowl of Ale, thereof to drink, as their last refreshing in this life. He dissected rather awkwardly and hurriedly, but, on the whole, effectively, and drew with an impatient directness that made up in significance what it lacked in precision. Satisfied with his scrutiny, he produced a pocket-flask, and taking off the silver cup with which it was mounted, filled it with the contents of the flask, and then seizing the thin arm of the sleeper, rudely shook it. The first circumstance that struck her on her arrival seemed ominous. But when she was thinking it over in her room that evening vague and baffling doubts came drifting across this conviction. But he was so feeble, that it seemed scarcely possible he could offer any effectual resistance in case of an attack. Why did he care? “I could never marry a girl who’s not a virgin. By many a highwayman many a draught Of nutty-brown ale at Saint Giles's was quaft, Until the old lazar-house chanced to fall down, And the broad-bottom'd bowl was removed to the Crown. You are your nephew's executioner, or he is yours.
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